


By Nature Raw and Wild

by medusine



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arguing, BDSM, Caning, M/M, Mind Games, Power Play, Spanking, Vulnerability, bratty sub Flint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-26 00:45:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19757134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medusine/pseuds/medusine
Summary: A furious Gates finds out that Flint not only enjoys a bit of discipline, but also has other needs to which he won't readily admit.





	By Nature Raw and Wild

This was it. This was the fucking straw that broke the camel's back, this was.

“Captain, a word?” Gates growled between gritted teeth.

Flint rolled his eyes and huffed before swaggering into the Captain's cabin. He knew what he'd done. He knew and there wasn't an ounce of shame in his gait, not even a trace of regret. Gates' blood pounded furiously in his head.

“What the fuck d'you think you're playing at?!” Gates shouted after slamming the door closed. “You nearly blew that ship up with all of us still on it!”

“But I didn't, and we won.” Flint shot him a savage grin. There was still blood all over his face, sticking in his beard. He looked majestic, the bastard, with cuts and scrapes all over him and loose strands escaping his ponytail.

The cabin was hot and stifling, and the room seemed to shrink even more with Flint looking like that, with Flint looking at him like that, defiant and smug. Gates balled his fists, nostrils flaring, suffocating with a mixture of anger and, fuck it, admiration. He had to fight himself not to smirk back, to make himself remember why he'd been so fucking furious.

“We _voted_ that we'd retreat if we'd bitten off more than we could chew,” he told Flint. “You were there! We were going to play it safe!”

“Safe doesn't secure us the loot we need to be taken seriously in Nassau.”

“Any other man on this ship endangering the crew like you did would be caned, at the very least.”

Flint snorted and raised his eyebrows at Gates, a smirk spreading on his face.

“Is that what you want to do, Mr Gates?” he asked, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “Do you want to cane me?”

There'd been moments between them. Near-misses, times when they'd been standing too close, where Flint's smirks had been a little too wicked, where his eyes had glittered suggestively at some filthy joke or reference. There had been touches, sometimes, brushes of hips and shoulders and hands that could have been nothing but the ship jostling them, but felt like they were Flint's way of getting into Gates' space, under his skin.

And now, this. This provocation, first playful and now downright lewd. Perhaps it was just Flint's way of placating Gates, of distracting him from his very fucking valid concerns. And it was working, damn him.

“Well,” Flint asked. His eyes were dark, his breathing still heavy from the battle. “What's stopping you, Mr Gates?”

“Don't push me, Captain,” Gates growled.

“It's your duty as Quartermaster after all,” Flint continued, fiddling with the clasp of his belt. It slid off his waist and its many studs rattled and clinked as they hit the table.

Gates stood there in a daze, aware he probably looked like a complete numpty and absolutely unable to shake himself out of it. This wasn't about a caning at all, was it? It was just an excuse for Flint to get his own way, as usual, using his wiles to manipulate him.

“Right,” Gates snapped, marching towards the door to retrieve the rattan cane he kept hanging there. Unlike Quartermasters in the Navy or the merchant marine, Gates didn't make a habit of using it unless truly necessary.

After bolting the cabin door, Gates turned around to see Flint unbuttoning his breeches and pushing them off his hips. The little fuck was still playing with him, wasn't he? Grown men didn't get caned as boys did. This wasn't an act of contrition, it was just fucking cheek. Cheek and a cheap attempt at seduction. Flint had another thing coming if he thought Gates was going to forget how furious he was.

Flint braced himself on his desk, cocking his hips just so, as though to make his naked arse even more alluring than it already was. The Lord almighty hadn't been fucking around when He made James Flint, Gates would give him that. He had a really good arse, and thighs to die for. And Flint clearly knew it and was trying to use it to his advantage.

“As a boy, is it?” Gates said at last, moving closer.

“Since you insist on treating me like one,” Flint returned with an indifferent shrug.

God he was smug. Gates hated how much he liked it, how turned on he was getting at the sight of Flint's arse just offered up for him to do as he pleased with it.

“Twelve strokes,” Gates announced as sternly as he could manage. His cheeks burned with a raging blush.

“Five,” Flint countered.

Gates snorted. “Twenty!”

“That's not how you barga–”

Flint was cut off by a swift stroke of the cane. His voice broke off in a strangled moan, one that had little to do with pain – it hadn't been a particularly hard blow – and was much more revealing of Flint's inclinations.

The four next strokes came in swift succession. Gates kept them light, more intent on leaving stinging welts than dealing Flint any damage that would weaken him the next time he threw himself into another of his harebrained plans.

“That's five. Do you feel contrite enough yet?” Gates asked. Flint had kept silent after his initial surprised moan, but now Gates picked up on the gasping hitches of his breath.

“What d'you think?” Flint drawled.

“I think you're so fucking used to this, Captain, that you barely feel the pain.”

Flint chuckled and shifted a little. Gates did his best not to look down at Flint's reddened arse, but found himself unable to resist. Given that Flint was a smart-mouthed little shit, Gates was surprised not to find any scars from whippings from his years in the Navy. He tried to focus on that mystery, rather than on the smooth freckled skin that was turning bright pink, and failed miserably. Just seeing Flint like this was making Gates' cock grow full and heavy in his breeches.

“Maybe you're just a soft touch,” Flint retorted.

Gates landed a blow on the back of Flint's thighs, drawing a surprised gasp from him. He striped two more in a criss-cross on Flint's arse, raising a pair of welts. He hadn't drawn blood, but it was a close thing.

“That's eight.”

Flint's hips were moving in a conspicuous back-and-forth against the desk, one that matched the lust deepening his voice, the breathiness of his gasps. This was supposed to be about punishment, but fucking hell, who was Gates kidding? You didn't punish Flint, or make him bend. Apparently all of this farce was just Flint's twisted way of getting off, and Gates had played along with it because he was weak.

Still, there was one thing he could do to gain a semblance of control over this.

“Don't you dare,” Gates snapped, pulling Flint's hips away from the desk. Flint let out a stifled whine, and it gave Gates more satisfaction than the slap of the cane on Flint's skin.

He leaned over Flint, pressing himself into his back, pushing his groin into Flint's raw skin. This, too, drew a quiet sound from Flint's throat. “So this is what you like, then, Captain?” Gates breathed into his ear. “You were just gagging for a caning, were you?”

“Hardly,” Flint spat. The way his hips still tried to move even as Gates held him fast was telling another story.

“Could've fooled me. Hold still.”

Flint did as he was told, gripping the edge of the desk, taking a deep shaky breath. His frustration was music to Gates' ears.

“Twelve, was it? Think you'll be able to sit after that?”

Flint's lip curled angrily. “I'll manage.”

“Good boy,” Gates told him, and cracked the cane hard across Flint's buttocks just as Flint turned to glare at him. He followed it with three more, light, stinging blows. The expressions shifting over Flint's face were a thing of beauty, a mixture of pain and of ecstasy he barely seemed able to contain now.

“You enjoyed this much too much,” Gates told Flint sternly. “And if you think I'm going to give you a moment alone to finish yourself off, you've got another thing coming.”

“Hal…” For the first time, Flint's voice sounded less arrogant and more pleading.

“Oh no. Accounts. We've got a lot of things to log in the accounts books, don't we?”

Flint said nothing, but lowered his head against the desk and stayed there panting, catching his breath. His body was quivering with repressed need and, Gates thought, perhaps some embarrassment too. Perhaps the blush that was spreading up his face and down his neck wasn't just from exertion.

“Unless you had something else in mind,” Gates said. He had a pretty good idea of what Flint had in mind. Men didn't usually bare their arses for other men without knowing what they were in for, especially not on a ship.

“Do _you_ have something in mind?” Flint snapped back.

“Me? Doesn't matter, does it?” Gates said in an overly cheerful tone. “Quartermaster does what the Captain asks him to do, doesn't he?”

Flint grunted, clearly uncomfortable now that things hadn't gone the way he'd planned. Now that he was going to have to ask for what he _really_ wanted, what he'd been trying to get from Gates without admitting it. God knew why he wanted it so badly, and from Gates of all people, but Gates slowly became aware of the fact the he had much more power of the Captain at that moment than he'd ever had.

Gates ran the tips of his fingers over the reddened flesh of Flint's arse, lightly moving along the line of a welt, stopping just at the cleft of his buttocks. Flint barely reacted, but his breath came heavier. Stubborn idiot.

“Clearly we both know what I have in mind,” Flint finally choked out.

“Do we?” Gates said brightly. “No, it would be really wrong of me to make assumptions about my Captain. A Quartermaster must know his place, after all.”

“You're enjoying this much too much,” Flint spat.

Gates chuckled at having his own words thrown back at me. “I really am.” He covered both of Flint's glorious buttocks with his hands, massaging them, parting them slightly. Flint moaned and pressed into his touch. Christ. Gates hadn't imagined Flint actually wanted it this much. He'd never seen Flint show an interest for anyone.

“You're quite the dark horse, you are,” Gates told him. “How long have you been wanting me to fuck you?”

“Why don't you fucking do it instead of asking stupid questions?”

Gates slapped Flint across the rump. The blow was light, but it still drew a sharp gasp from Flint. Gates placed his hands on Flint's hips again, holding him in place. “Ask nicely.”

It was obvious from the tension in Flint's shoulders and the clench in his jaw and the way his fists were balled that he was tempted to lash out, to rage, to push Gates away. Gates saw the battle play out on his face in tremors and tics along his cheeks.

Finally, Flint heaved a great sigh. “I want you to fuck me,” he mumbled.

If Gates had been a cruel man, or one to push his luck, he would have got Flint to repeat it, even to add a “please”. But he knew when to stop, knew when he'd won a battle with Flint. It didn't happen often.

“All right, then.” Gates moved away, slowly rubbing across Flint's arse as he went.

Flint instantly turned around, eyes wide with that feverish paranoid look that spoke volumes about the demons that tormented him. “Where are you going?”

“To get oil,” Gates told him, rummaging in his belongings. “You're going to need it if you plan on sitting in the near future.”

“No need to brag,” Flint muttered haughtily, as though he hadn't just revealed how worried he was that Gates was going to walk out of there without giving him what he wanted.

Gates briefly stopped in his tracks when he returned to Flint. Flint was ridding himself of his breeches and shoes, hair mussed, his ponytail coming undone. He didn't remove his shirt, letting it fall to the middle of his thighs, artfully covering the evidence of his arousal. The blush across his throat and face, however, betrayed how desperate he was.

Flint turned around to face the desk when he noticed Gates watching him. He hiked his shirt up again to bare his arse and gave Gates a cool, defiant glare. Gates couldn't help but smile at the lengths Flint would go to mask what was actually a very simple desire.

Lucky for Flint, Gates wasn't one to put on a stupid act to appear uninterested, nor could he be bothered to torture Flint and himself by making them wait. Not today, at least. He covered two fingers in the slick grease and swiped a line of it into the cleft of Flint's arse. Flint's legs wobbled at the touch, but he kept quiet. At least, he kept quiet until Gates started rubbing circles over his hole. Small gasps and half-moans sounded out in the room.

“All you needed to do was ask, Captain,” Gates told him. It was surprisingly easy to slide a finger inside of Flint, and the sounds Flint made as Gates worked it in and out of him went right to Gates' cock. Slowly, Gates started unbuttoning his breeches with his free hand.

Flint half-turned to watch what Gates was doing. With a rueful smile, Gates pulled his cock out. He was still quite soft; advancing years meant he didn't get rock hard at the drop of a hat anymore. Thank god, in most cases.

“Give me the oil,” Flint told him.

The pushy Captain was back, Gates noted as he handed Flint the oil, but that was all right. It was the Captain he was used to, after all, and he wasn't surprised that Flint was trying to take charge even when he had not one but now two fingers up his arse.

Once Flint had poured oil in his palm he beckoned Gates with a nod. Gates moved closer, and Flint's slick hand wrapped around his cock, and fuck, did Flint know what he was doing. Gates could barely focus on fucking Flint with his fingers, so taken was he by the sensation of his cock swelling and stiffening under Flint's touch. He rocked back and forth with Flint's movements, slightly dazed, as if all that existed for a moment was his cock and Flint's hand.

“All right, maybe you weren't bragging,” Flint said with a smirk, briefly meeting Gates' eyes, as Gates' cock grew to its full size.

“And are you all right with it?” Gates asked, though the tug and squeeze of Flint's fingers on him and the feverish sound of his breath left little doubt about it.

“Just put it in, Hal,” Flint growled at him. “D'you know how long you've been making me wait?”

Gates removed his fingers from Flint's arse and pressed the tip of his cock to the opening instead. Flint was clearly in the habit of doing this; Gates slid in quite easily indeed. “Me, made you wait?” Gates ground out, gripping Flint's hips in an effort not to thrust in further too quickly. “You've been flaunting yourself and teasing me for years now.”

“Exactly, and you never did a thing about it,” Flint returned. “I thought you weren't interested, but apparently you were just being fucking dense.” As he spoke, Flint found a way to shift his hips so as to draw more of Gates inside of him. God, he was infuriating.

“You know what? For that, I'm not gonna let you touch yourself until I'm done,” Gates growled into Flint's ear, pushing in further. “How does that sound for making you wait?”

Flint moaned, pushing back against Gates until he slid deep inside. Fuck. Fuck Flint felt amazing, clenched around his cock. It must have been ages since Gates had got this close to someone, since all his senses had sung and his body vibrated with this much need.

They rocked together slowly, Gates running his hands over Flint's hips, his waist, up his freckled back. Perhaps Flint hadn't expected it; he shivered, sighing deeply, obviously swallowing back wanton moans. He didn't want to be seen like this, Gates knew, vulnerable and wanting. So Gates said nothing, and picked up the pace, his thumbs still rubbing the soft flesh at the small of Flint's back.

“I'm not gonna break,” Flint ground out, arrogant and bossy as ever. “Or is that all you've got, old man?”

“I'll have none of your cheek,” Gates said, with more sternness than he felt. He pushed in deeper, before pulling out and jerking back in again. Flint's breath stuttered, his hands curling tight over the opposite end of the desk.

What had started out as practically tender turned wild as Gates increased the pace. He let himself be taken up in the rhythm, the exquisite slide of his cock in and out of Flint, the sweat running down his back, slicking Flint's back, in the stiflingly hot cabin. They were as quiet as they could, but the stifled sounds soon grew frantic.

“This more your speed, then?” Gates asked, brushing his beard down Flint's back. Flint bucked back with a surprised grunt, and squeezed Gates' cock harder. “I'm gonna touch your cock now,” Gates told him. “Don't you dare come.”

“As if,” Flint growled at him, but it was a weak argument indeed for someone who lay flushed and squirming and moaning on a desk with a cock up is freshly spanked arse. Gates slid a hand down Flint's thigh, running down the front of it, up the inside. Flint jerked skittishly when Gates cupped his balls.

“You can tell a lot from a bloke's balls,” Gates returned, never breaking the rhythm of his thrusts. “They're mighty tight, Captain. You're about ready to burst, aren't you?”

And so was he, if he was honest. The only thing keeping him from going over the edge was sheer stubbornness at making Flint wait as long as he fucking well could.

“God, Hal,” Flint moaned, his face buried in his arms. He didn't say please, and he didn't need to. The vulnerability, the plea, was right there in the quavering of his voice.

Gates wrapped his hand around Flint's cock, which was as stiff and hot as he'd expected it to be. Flint moaned, a practically pained sound, as Gates pounded into him and worked his cock at the same rhythm. God it was heady, the velvet feel of Flint's skin moving under Gates' hand, the heat of him around Gates' cock.

Flint's hips jerked feverishly, and his seed spurted through Gates' fingers. He barely made a sound, but clenched in spasms around Gates' cock. It was too much, too fucking good. Gates came with a muffled curse, stupidly surprised by the intensity of his own climax.

It took him a moment to catch his breath. Flint was heaving beneath him, squirming somewhat uncomfortably. Gates pulled out, taking in the bright red hue of Flint's caned arse one last time.

“You all right?” he asked Flint.

Flint was practically trembling. He glanced back at Gates, his eyes as dark and wild as a cornered animal's. “Fine.”

It was the kind of “fine” that meant that he wasn't, but Gates decided not to push it. He'd got to know Flint more intimately than ever, and predictably Flint couldn't stand that intimacy any longer.

“All right,” Gates said, tucking himself away and fastening his breeches. “I've got work to do anyway.”

Flint nodded. He tried and nearly succeeded to find that sharp, disinterested expression he often wore. “Good. Get to it, then.”

Gates merely smiled at the infuriating tone, and made no further comment as he left the room. There would be time enough, he knew, to untangle the mysteries that made up James Flint, shameless in the wake of his destruction, terrified of being betrayed and vulnerable in those very few seconds where the smug mask slipped.

What a strange, infuriating beast he was.

**Author's Note:**

> I stole my title from an Immanuel Kant quote which sums this whole thing up quite well: "Man must be disciplined, for he is by nature raw and wild."  
> (Good luck with that, Mr Gates)


End file.
